Confessions of An Underpaid Therapist
by Questioning.Silence
Summary: Beckett's new therapist had no idea what she was getting into by accepting the detective as her client. She's in for a crazy few weeks as she learns the dramatic story of the writer and his detective and finally decides to do something to resolve it.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a bit different than what I'm accustomed to writing. Usually, I write from some type of third-person limited-omniscient view (or whatever phrase my high school teacher would have said) of the main TV characters, but this story instead focuses on the thoughts of the therapist... It's rather limiting. So, please, let me know what you think._

_Also, I'm aware that Beckett's therapist is a man. For the purposes of this story, the therapist is a woman. As hard as I tried to write this from a man's point of view, I realized that no one was going to find it sincere. I have two X-chromosomes and the style of my writing proves it. If anyone has tips on how guys write, feel free to share them._

_Finally, I'd just like to make one thing clear: My other Castle story, The Morgue Has Ears, is complete. I keep getting story alerts for that and I have no idea why. It's a one-shot that I intend to let stand on its own. I do appreciate the interest, however, and plan to write another story of that style someday._

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><p><span>Confessions of an Underpaid Therapist<span>

As a child, I loved to read the "Dear Abby" column in the local newspaper. Honestly, it was better than a Spanish soap opera.

"Dear Abby, I'm secretly in love with my best friend's husband. How do I get him to divorce her and marry me?"

Um, excuse me? Did you _really_ just ask that?

"Dear Abby, there's a stain in my favorite pair of shorts, and it's completing ruining my life because I can't wear them! Help!"

Tragic. Please, allow me to put you out of your misery. Here's a loaded .45.

"Dear Abby, my father says that the voices in my head aren't normal, but I know that they must be. They give me the best ideas, and they always tell me when someone is following me. Or watching me. Or stalking me. Right now, I'm hiding in the shower because I know they're after me. What was I saying… Oh, right. How do I convince my father that I'm superior to him because the voices only talk to me and that he should leave me alone?"

Okay, perhaps I've exaggerated a bit. Often the questions are legitimate. Sometimes, though, I pitied that poor woman, forced to read such ridiculous tales and then hunt for a respectable answer.

But now mostly, I pity me.

You see, about ten long years ago, I decided to become a therapist. Psychiatrist. Shrink. Call it whatever floats your boat. I believe I made this decision out of a misguided desire to _help_ people.

I was such a fool. As Elphaba says in the musical "Wicked," no good deed goes unpunished. I've paid dearly for this job. In reward for devoting myself to my work and spending long hours trying to fix other peoples' lives, my own life has turned into the soap opera. My husband is on the verge of asking for a divorce, my daughter is mixed up with "that" crowd in high school, and my son… Well let's just say that I didn't know _anybody _could get in so much trouble at such a young age.

But you didn't come here to listen to me and my troubles. You came here to hear about the catastrophic, heart-rending tragedy that is the love saga of one Richard Castle and Kate Beckett.

And, boy, are you in the right place! It's absolutely fantastic—their story, that is. If I didn't have to worry about trite regulations (such as the law prohibiting me from sharing their confidences), I could write a book and make millions.

But then again, I'm no Rick Castle. The best I'd get would be a ten-minute segment on Oprah.

I'd settle for that though. I'm not picky.

Anyway, about two years ago, I left my private practice in order to be an employee of the city. My luck being what it is, I got saddled with the cops and detectives of the NYPD. Fuuunnnn. On the bright side of things, at least their problems aren't quite as trashy as some of the Dear Abby articles. On the other hand, cops have a lot more problems than first meets the eyes. And they do NOT like to share them with a stranger. Or a friend. Or even themselves, for that matter.

Which is why my job is a bit like pulling teeth.

My own teeth.

Without anesthetic.

So I guess I'm simply writing this for myself. I think I deserve to complain, and if I can't complain to a living person, I'll simply have to resort to inscribing my words on pulverized, bleached, dead trees.

That came out a lot more morbid than I actually meant it.

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><p>"I bet you don't get many cops back in here after they pass their psych test," Detective Kate Beckett murmurs softly, hugging her knees as she looks everywhere but me. In an office as small as mine, this is a feat.<p>

You're kidding, right? Cops voluntarily returning to see a therapist? Happens about as often as a snowstorm in July. In Texas.

Granted, there have been a couple… A very very few. See, among cops as with everyone else these days, the overwhelming impulse is to "be strong and independent." People ought to know by now that humans are capable of incredible feats, but that no one—absolutely no one—can do it alone. Those who say otherwise are stupid. Those who avoid therapy just so that they don't appear weak to others are ridiculous.

Perhaps I'm a little too outspoken about this, but it's what makes my job so painfully difficult. This mentality makes it so that I'm trying to help people who refuse to help themselves. And cops are often more stubborn than the average person. In the NYPD, you almost have to be.

"Everyone is different," I reply, diplomatically. I'm rather proud of that response, even if I do say so myself.

She doesn't appear to notice my eloquence. "I lied before, about the shooting," she admits.

Crazy girl say _wha-at_? I'm usually so good at ferreting out these little lies. This is, well, rather humiliating.

Kate Beckett continues, completely unaware of the inner turmoil raging within my devastated soul.

See? I really could make a go at this whole writing a book thing.

"I remember everything."

Great, so you remember getting shot. Makes for a great conversation starter. Frankly, I'm a little less concerned about the fact she lied to me than the tiny little matter of the approval I signed for this woman to return to work. Can't have a bunch of severely traumatized people with a badge and gun running around NYC now, can we?

Now, I know there will be some of you out there who will disapprove of my inner commentary. Perhaps you find me insensitive and uncaring. That's not true. I care deeply for these people. Still, I'm human. I have the right to my own thoughts here.

"Tell me about it," I say smoothly.

She chews on her the inside of her lip for a minute. "I… don't really know where to start."

"From the beginning."

Really? We just did the I-don't-know-where-to-start-so-start-at-the-beginning line from the cheesy, clichéd movies. WOW. But I digress.

"Well… you remember Castle?" she asks.

Super-famous, handsome mystery writer who follows around a beautiful NYPD Detective? Nope, never heard of him.

Seriously lady. What do you take me for?

"I believe so. You mentioned that he's been working with you and your team for the last few years, consulting on cases and gathering information to write his book about you."

Kate bristles immediately, "It's not about me."

Not fair. She doesn't notice my brilliantly-constructed sentences but chooses to focus on a single shoddy phrase.

Ah, well. C'est la vie.

"Of course; it's fiction, right? What does Castle have to do with your shooting?" You have NO idea how often I have to remind patients of what they were just ranting about. You'd think they'd be invested enough to actually focus on their complaints, but no…

"Castle…" she sighs, "Well, my mother was murdered about a dozen years ago. It's probably in that file," she motions to the manila folder in my lap. Incidentally, her background happens to be the majority of the papers in the file. Not like she needs to know that. She continues, "Anyway, Castle… See, I had manage to put it behind me, but he reopened the case." There's a slightly bitter twist to her face, and she's suddenly on a roll, detailing their past few years with each other until my head is swimming in facts.

It's fascinating, really. They could make a movie about themselves.

I think she still resents that he opened her mother's case against her wishes, but I would be surprised if she actually _blames _him for that. Think about that for a second. It makes sense.

I think.

"Then, at the funeral…" Kate's demeanor has been calm up to this point throughout her narrative, but now she crosses and uncrosses her legs, runs her fingers through her hair, and shifts uncomfortably. Suddenly, she seems to notice her body language and forces herself to remain still and relaxed. It's frankly impressive how casual she looks. If I hadn't seen her twitching before, I would never have guessed.

"I don't really remember the bullet. It didn't even hurt at first. The next thing I remember is lying on the ground. Castle was there," there's a faraway look in her eyes and she speaks hesitantly, "sliding in and out of focus. Then, just… black."

"Did he say anything… do anything?" I'm totally fishing. She's holding something back. It's annoying.

Kate glances quickly down at the watch on her wrist. "I'm sorry," she replies warmly, "I completely lost track of the time."

It's about ten minutes past her time slot. So what? This is important. My next patient can wait. His primary concern right now is the way that his ex-wife's daughter's friend is attempting a hunger strike to convince her parents to buy her a car. Very odd and a bit sad, I'm sure, but I still haven't figured out why it's so devastating to him.

She continues, "It's a long story, so I'll have to finish next time." She smiles, "Next week?"

"Of course," I nod and smile.

Lame. Sooooo lame.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed. You made me smile in the midst of a difficult week. This story won't be long, only 4 chapters, and I have them all written so it's just a matter of finding time to post. If anyone has any ideas they'd like to see incorporated though, I would certainly consider them._

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><p>I'm frankly not surprised when Beckett cancels her next appointment. She's on a case, she says. I tell her there's no problem and just to come the next week while I clench my teeth and grit a smile. I really don't want a whole hour to think about my husband or children right now.<p>

But she does show up the next week. We finally reach the reason she lies about remembering anything about the shooting.

"He told me he loved me," the words are quiet, muffled, and tinged with an emotion that I can't quite identify. Shame? Remorse? Confusion?

Oh.

Okay.

Interesting.

Um… totally at a loss here.

"I see. And do you feel the same way?"

She stares at the floor, takes a deep breath and opens her mouth to speak. Then her shoulders drop and she lets out the breath. She shrugs. I think it might be a bad idea to push her at this point.

"Okay, well, has your relationship changed because of his admission?"

"No. I told him I didn't remember."

"His confession?"

"Any of it."

Wow. You're almost more messed up than me and my family. And trust me, _that_ is saying something.

"And why is that?"

Frustration flashes across her face. "Because I don't _know_! I don't… I just…" she trails off, struggling to figure out her thoughts, "I… It just doesn't seem like a good idea."

"To let him know that you know? Or to love him in return?"

"Both."

"Because…?"

She sighs, "Too much work to have a relationship. Too much work to hide it from my boss and coworkers. Too many opportunities to mess it up and lose him forever."

"So you're not the type of person to go double or nothing?"

She starts and stares at me. "No, I guess not," she replies thoughtfully.

"You'd rather have him stick around forever than be in a relationship with him and possibly lose him?"

"No. Yes. I don't know."

She says that a lot, and always with a little frown on her face that shows me that she's not accustomed to admitting lack of knowledge.

After about this point in the conversation, a whole lot of nothing gets accomplished. I won't bore you with the petty details.

During this appointment and subsequent ones over the next two weeks, I establish several important points.

1. Richard Castle is a total pain and ridiculously immature.

2. Conversely, Richard Castle is amazing and selfless.

3. Richard Castle does not belong in the NYPD.

4. Paradoxically, Richard Castle is a brilliant consultant in the NYPD.

5. Detective Kate Beckett dances around answers but rarely answers them in the manner in which I wish.

6. The new Captain in the precinct is a witch.

7. Richard Castle is totally in love with Detective Beckett.

8. Detective Beckett—wait for it—isn't sure what she feels.

9. Detective Beckett is living in La-La Land.

10. Detective Beckett shows no signs of wanting to leave La-La Land, despite my best hints and subtle prodding.

My conclusion? Confusion.

So… what to do about this? Well, I have to admit, I don't usually run into situations like this. I mean, you must think me _completely_ incompetent, but I assure you I'm usually quite good at my job.

Hmmm… I really like the look of lists such as this. I may have to make other ones. They lay out the information so nicely. Am I boring you with little housekeeping details like this?

Well sor-_ry!_ You don't have to read this then.

Anyways, where was I?

Oh, right. So, I finally get a breakthrough at the fifth meeting. Beckett is really fired up about some woman who was a suspect in a case. Apparently, the woman was not the problem, but the fact that Castle spent the majority of the time flirting with her.

Figures. So I try very hard to kindly show Kate Beckett the error of her inconsistent ways. I explain that she said she doesn't want to date him, so perhaps she should look at this woman as a possible soul mate for Castle. Then Beckett wouldn't have to worry about him being in love with her.

Unfortunately, #5 on my list keeps biting me in the butt. She is really a master at not answering questions. You _think_ she's answered the question because she rattles on and on about it, and only later do you realize that you did not receive any of the information requested.

So, back to square one.

Eventually, we start gaining some ground. She's passed every psyche test, every emotional-ability/capability test, social skills test, personality test, you name it. Yet there are some significant little problems in that interesting mind of hers.

I think she's partly delusional. She seems to think that if she can solve her mother's murder, she'll be free to think about and resolve her little issue with Castle. I don't really have the heart to explain to her that this is just an excuse.

Think about it. Until she solves the murder? Or until she proves the murderer is guilty? Or until he is arrested? Or until he goes to trial? Or until he is convicted? Do you understand my dilemma now? I don't really know how to say this to her nicely.

I try anyway. #5 happens. And some #10. I learn some more things.

1. Detective Beckett once broke up with her boyfriend for Richard Castle. Make that twice.

2. Detectives Ryan and Esposito have bonded with Richard Castle, though the "Witchy" new captain hasn't.

3. Almost everything Detective Beckett talks about rhymes with "Prichard Hassle." Almost everything she smiles about or seems pleased about revolves around said rhyming words.

4. Detective Beckett doesn't seem to notice this.

5. Richard Castle likes ghosts. And spies. And conspiracies. He likes stories and poker and loves his daughter and mother. He is caring and funny and sensitive and clever and curious. He can take a joke too far some times. He likes to work in the precinct. And fight with plastic laser swords. He likes mysteries. And hamburgers.

6. And beautiful young women.

7. Detective Beckett does not approve of this.

Fascinating, really. She is sooooo blind. It's sad, really.

You see, they are stuck right where they are, orbiting one another, helplessly waiting for the other to make the one, definitive move that would either separate the two of them or bind them together irrevocably. But neither of them can make that move, because they are hopelessly caught in the other's orbit, and each is equally strong. They cannot break free and move forward independent of each other, just as they cannot come together. The two circle each other, but are caught by the greater centripetal force of fears and reservations. Mostly hers, from what I see, but perhaps she is that type of person to begin with.

Anyway, planet analogies aside, they seem cemented in their current positions. Each has made several hesitant steps, but always at the wrong time. An offer here, a comment there, a concession, a backward glance… All simply stymied by bad timing. If only a few of these subtle signs had been noticed, perhaps they would not be where they are today.

See what I mean about sad?

So I try. I promise I do truly try. We work out the shooting, old resentment against her father, lingering grief over her mother's death, workplace frustrations.

All of these seem to help, but I worry where she will be after she stops attending these sessions with me. She needs somebody—not wants, not could be helped by, but _needs_—Castle. Because he sees right through her.

Anyway, I tiptoe around the topic of Castle. I think I'm aiming for some kind of subliminal messaging or something here, because I keep emphasizing how he's always there for her, how they are such great friends. I'm not supposed to be personally invested in her decisions or want her to select a certain path over an equally valid path without a really good reason but…

This counts as a good reason.

I just think she needs to be shoved in order to see the validity of the two of them as a couple. But I'm a therapist, not a personal trainer or boot camp instructor.

So, I guess, the holding pattern will remain.


	3. Chapter 3

Hello again! Remember me? Depressed, rather cynical therapist?

Really? You've forgotten already.

That's fine, I guess. A lot of people do.

So, it's been a week since we last chatted. In that span of 7 or so days, my life has really taken a turn for the worse. On Monday, my son got arrested. Yup.

He's eleven.

Can you say _terrible_ parental figure? Don't worry, I already have.

So he's awaiting a hearing. There's meth involved. I don't need more detail than that, do I?

Wednesday, the bank that holds the line of credit for our house threatened foreclosure. Therapists don't make all _that_ much money.

And Thursday, my husband gave me the divorce papers I've been dreading for the past month. They're in the top drawer of my desk, awaiting my signature. I guess "'til death do us part" meant "'til relationship doth become difficult."

But you're really not here about me. Or my pounding headache.

All in good time.

The end of this terrible week is in sight, I guess. All I have to do is make it out of this appointment and I'm done. Free. For about forty-eight hours, at least… I resist the urge to lean my head back on the chair behind me.

But of course, it just couldn't be that easy, could it?

Don't answer that.

Anyway, in comes Beckett with a chip on her shoulder weighing a thousand pounds and a scowl visible for a mile.

Lovely.

"Good afternoon, Detective," I say flatly. I can't even find the energy for a fake smile at this point.

She nods sharply—good; at least we aren't faking congeniality at this point—and walks over to her customary chair. Instead of sitting down, however, she starts to pace back and forth in the center of my office. As previously stated, my office is quite small. As a result, there is a lot more turning than striding and a lot more hair whipping back and forth than impressive stomping.

She doesn't seem to notice this, though, for the pacing continues throughout the duration of our following conversation.

"Won't you have a seat, Detective?" I ask, quite mildly considering the raging headache pounding between my temples.

She ignores this. "Castle!" she finally hisses, seemingly incapable of further speech.

I wait.

"He—" she splutters into incoherent silence.

The pacing is starting to annoy.

"Please have a seat," I won't deny the slightly whining edge to my voice.

She sits down, and the next words from her mouth are laced with such foul language that I've taken the liberty of editing her speech for the purposes of this document. You never know, a child might somehow get a hold of this.

So, roughly translated, her comments could be transcribed as such: "Richard Castle is an incredibly annoying individual. Thanks to his careless disregard for my wishes, I have severed all ties with him and do not intend to reestablish them."

Actually, I gotta admit, her phrases were so much more poetic… In a rather rustic kind of way.

Still, she got the point across in a remarkably short amount of time.

Regardless of my admiration for her more than adequate grasp of the various swear words in the English and Russian languages (my uncle married a Belorussian woman, so I learned all the interesting Russian words from a young age… Needless to say, my mother wasn't pleased), I do have certain professional standards to maintain.

"Detective…" I say warningly.

She calms down. Sometime in between her ranting and my musing over her word choice, she has popped back up and is now pacing the room in earnest for the second time.

"I'm not a mind reader," I say, attempting a soothing tone and achieving a sort of pacifying bleat, "so please elaborate on the day's events."

"Castle." she grits out through clenched teeth, "Has. Been. LYING. to ME!"

And you've been lying to him. So isn't it even? But whatever, that's not a can of worms I'm willing to open at the moment.

She calms down enough to speak coherent sentences and then continues without me prompting her, "Before Montgomery died, he apparently sent some _information_" she puts a bitter twist on the word, "to somebody. I don't know who. Apparently, this _individual" _the bitterness is again accentuated, "called my former partner and informed him that I needed to stop looking into my mother's case. So _Castle_, instead of informing me about this new lead, saw fit to _hide _this information from me so that I would back off the case.

"It's _my_ choice. He should _never_ have kept it from me!" And she continues on and on and on and on, about how she never should have trusted him, how much she loathes the very sight of him, how she should have dismissed him before when she had the opportunity, how she never wants to see or hear from him—much less work with him—ever again.

Interesting. You know, therapists have a tendency to see the side of an individual that no one else sees. We see the broken confusion of a seemingly perfect individual. We see the doubts of an over-confident, raging ego-maniac. And sometimes, we get to see the unchecked anger of a typically calm and rational NYPD detective.

She keeps going. For someone who could barely talk at first, she isn't shutting up. I wonder how she is getting enough oxygen at this rate.

I just don't see how she misses the similarities of her lie and Castle's. The hypocrisy is blatant here. I'm really tempted to call her out on it. I can feel the throbbing in my skull throughout the rest of my body. I think of that sheaf of official papers sitting in top drawer of my desk. I think of the thousands of dollars that my husband and I are in debt. I think of my son in the local correctional center, and something snaps.

She has _no right_ not to be happy! She has everything she possibly could want, and only her stubbornness and stupidity stands between her and happily ever after.

I interrupt her right in the middle of a tirade about Castle's childishness and utter inadequacy.

"You're completely in love with him, aren't you?" I ask, callously.

Beckett's jaw freezes between one word and the next and she gapes at me. In the next moment, she recovers herself, "Ex_cuse_ me?"

"No, that's not it, is it?" The question is rhetorical. "You don't love him. Obviously you don't love him at all. No one could treat someone they love like you treat Castle. So I guess I'm wrong. Some therapist I am, huh?" I smile sarcastically.

I can't _believe_ I just did that.

The word "therapist" seems to remind her why she is here and who I am. "You know what?" she snaps, instantly shutting down her facial expressions into an icy mask, "I agree. Frankly, I have no idea why I'm here. This hasn't helped in the slightest. I believe I'll be leaving now."

She stands up and prepares to sweep away in a dignified manner.

What was I thinking?

Uh-oh…

Somehow, I don't think she'll tell on me though. If I'm investigated for professional standards or she complains, her testimony will have to be given, and Kate Beckett is not the type to air her dirty laundry in public. So what do I have to lose?

"I think it's because you don't like yourself," I muse aloud. She stops only a few feet from the door, as I knew she would. She's curious. "Honestly, I think you dislike your own self so much that his love confuses and embarrasses you, because you don't understand it." I can't seem to stop talking! Literally, it's like I'm on some kind of auto-pilot.

She pivots slowly around, fixing her cold glare on my uncaring face. "You have no right to—"

I cut her off. I'm good at that. "Of course I have no right to say this to you! Duh!" _Duh?_ Have I reverted to kindergarten? "I'm a therapist. But you, you don't need a therapist. What you _need_ is a good kick in the pants."

She's furious. And I… well, to tell the truth, have thoroughly doomed myself already. But there just might be a way to save this yet…

She's getting ready to walk out the door, and I need to stall. "Leave if you must," I say calmly as she turns away, knowing the abrupt change in voice will surprise her. It always works, "Or stay and get the truth for once in your life."

Completely ignoring me, she reaches for the door handle. "Or," I continue, "Go back out to the world where everyone lies to your face."

Wow. Cheesy much? Yet now I have her. I can see it in the way her grip on the door handle is raising the tendons in the backs of her hands. She absolutely _has_ to know what I know that she doesn't.

She turns around to face me. Suddenly, I'm exhausted and the pounding in my head, temporarily forgotten, is now renewed. "Just sit," I sigh, waving a hand at her chair when she doesn't move, "sit and I'll finish this up and you never have to come back again. I'll even call the insurance company and see that I'm not paid for this last session if you wish."

She sits. I think curiosity is passed through DNA. Her mother's life-long desire to find the truth has passed to her daughter. It's destroying her, but it might be the one thing that can save her as well.

"You lied to Castle, before. About the shooting and his confession of love," I add when she doesn't seem to remember.

"That's different," she says flatly. Her face is flushed.

"How?"

"He knows how important…" she trails off as I raise my eyebrows, "It's central... For years I've been searching…" she flounders each time, realizing my argument. I drill the point home anyway.

"You know how important loving you is to him. It's central to his life. For years he's been showing you this." I shake my head, "You forget how much you've told me, how much the papers have told me, and how long I've been doing this psychology thing."

She doesn't say a word.

"So you've both lied to each other. Now, I'm not saying two wrongs make a right, but don't you think they cancel each other out?"

She crosses a leg over the other and stares at some point over my shoulder. Fine.

"You know, it's just crazy how different you are. Different social, economic, familial, educational, personal, and even moral backgrounds in a way. From what you've told me, over the years you've known each other, you've altered one another. I would almost say you're becoming compatible."

She's finally looking directly at me. I think I'm starting to see the woman that she truly is, when not broken or uncharacteristically angry. I can see how Richard Castle might have fallen in love with her. She's proud and passionate and determined, and has a deep capacity to love others.

Which is what makes my next words all the more cutting.

"What I have noticed, though, is that you and Castle have the same priorities. All he cares about is that you are safe, comfortable and happy." She glances away as I say this, then back up at me. "And so do you."

Total burn.

Yes, I have noticed that I seem to have reverted to my childhood with my word choice today. Don't bring it up again.

She freezes, stunned, as she understands. Her face flushes red and she stands up and walks away.

I don't stop her.

This was a terrible idea. I don't know what came over me. I stare at the closed door, wondering what the ramifications of my verbal attack will be.

Ironically, my headache is gone now.

Yippee.

What have I done?


	4. Chapter 4

_Okay, this is the final chapter. I hope you find it a satisfactory conclusion... I just finished reading the last novel in a series I'd been following and was FAR from pleased, so I hope this chapter doesn't inflict that displeasure on any of you. Thanks so much for the wonderful reviews and for reading._

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><p>So.<p>

Anyway…

It's been a month since my little showdown with Detective Beckett. I haven't heard a single word about it. She hasn't called, texted, sued…

It's frankly anti-climactic. I mean, once I had time to think about what I had done, I really started stressing. I went off the freakin' deep end.

And now I almost feel… Oh, this is terrible, but I almost feel _cheated_. Yeah. I said it.

I feel like I deserve some kind of punishment or recognition or something. Anything except this mind-blowing silence. Really, after a blow out like that, I deserve whatever's coming to me... Except, nothing seems to be coming.

And I almost feel as though I should apologize. Yeah, a lot of things were making my life miserable when she came in that day, and most other people probably would have gone equally nuts in my place. Plus, she kinda deserved it. Actually, really really really deserved it. But I'm a therapist and a professional. I really shouldn't have.

Which brings me to my other point.

My life is no longer a pathetic soap opera.

Still soap opera, yes, but no longer pathetic. That's a definite step up.

The way I see it, family drama can be simplified into a few succinct steps. There's death-doom-despair, followed by unredeemable tragedy, followed by pathetic soap opera, followed by just plain soap opera. It gets a little vague after that… But usually something along the lines of Average, then Moderately Happy, then Never Never Land, and then Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.

But I digress.

After my little blowup, I realized something was waaaay wrong. Even wronger than usual, if you get what I'm saying.

So, in short, I marched on over to my husband's work, kissed him right in the middle of his office and all its inhabitants—well, in his cubicle actually, where no one else was paying attention, but still—and refused to sign those divorce papers. I told him he had said for better or worse, and he was going to handle me at my worst or so help him.

I didn't actually think it would _work._

Then we tag-teamed my son. It's gonna be a rocky road, but we'll get there with both him and my daughter.

Oh, and _I'm_ seeing a shrink now. I shoulda done that years ago. I guess it's not great to be counseling people while seeing a counselor yourself, but hey, take what you get.

So, with my life straightened around because of one Detective Beckett (she didn't do it on purpose, but she oh boy does she get results), I'm feeling more and more guilty.

Really, really guilty. And very, very foolish for my blow-out.

And I still haven't filled Beckett's time slot, so I'm sitting here in my chair in the office and reading the newspaper when I see it.

And my heart stops.

Plastered across the right side of page six is the wide, bold banner "Detective and Writer Split."

And then the article full of speculation and gossip.

I won't bother you with those boring details. In short, Richard Castle will no longer be shadowing Detective Kate Beckett. According to the article, the two gave no reason for going their separate ways, other than that Castle had all the information he needed to write his novels and it was time to move on, he was very grateful to the Twelfth Precinct for all the time they'd given him, yadda yadda yadda.

And then the gossip and speculation about problems and jealously and romantic relationships gone wrong and irreconcilable differences.

I shouldn't feel like crying, but I do.

I'm pretty sure this is my fault. I mean, not completely. I'm not melodramatic enough to suggest it was ALL my fault, but a part was.

Did she admit she heard his declaration of love? Did she apologize? Was it too late? Did she refuse to forgive him even after our disastrous session and is this the natural progression of her fury caused by his lie? Or did I somehow doom their relationship by pushing her?

I guess I will never know.

But I don't think I'll ever stop wondering.

Or blaming myself.

But...

I underestimated one Detective Katherine Beckett. Remember when I said that she had a incredible capacity to love but was passionate and proud?

Well she is. Even more than I guessed.

But she's also generous and forgiving.

The next day, I walk up to the door of my office to find a plain white envelope taped to the wood paneling. The only writing on it is my name, written in a neat, looping script that I recognize from the forms that Beckett filled out at her first appointment.

Inside is a single sheet of notebook paper, without a heading or address or signature. Instead of butchering the note by trying to summarize it, I'll let you read it.

_I guess I'm writing to thank you. Not that you really deserve it, precisely. I'm certainly not advocating that you try fighting with and insulting your clients on a regular basis. This time, however, it worked. _

_Perhaps you've seen in the papers that Castle and I are no longer working together. That wasn't exactly our decision. Captain Gates caught me kissing Castle in the break room—or perhaps I could just say "us kissing" because it wasn't exactly a one-sided incident—and banned him permanently from the precinct with a predictable amount of yelling and screaming and a surprising amount of swearing... Although, I think the swearing was directed at me, because I grabbed my coat, ignored the Captain, and followed him._

_I'm not too concerned about the whole incident, frankly. The Captain sees the Twelfth as no more than a stepping stone, and she'll be promoted in the near future. As it is, I just see Castle after work and he solves a good third of my cases for me. It's rather strange to be separated from him for so many hours of the day, but I wouldn't go back for anything. Not now, that I went for double or nothing and blessedly received double._

_So, as I said, thank you. Your outburst was what I needed to understand a few things. I actually went to Castle's apartment to apologize. I don't think I've ever done that before. Usually he comes to me and I let him back into my life… That's too one-sided to build a relationship on, and you helped me to see that._

_Anyway, I simply didn't think it was just for me to let you believe that Castle and I split up forever. I don't know if you actually cared, but you perhaps you did, so I thought a letter was only fair. Good luck, and good bye._

Well. Well well well.

YEAH! Who's a fantastic therapist? ME! I'M a fantastic therapist.

Not to self-aggrandize too much or anything.

And she thinks there's a chance that I didn't really care? Pfft. She's nuts.

And then, a few weeks later, I just happen to see her in a downtown park.

Okay, so maybe _happen _is the wrong word. Let me try this again.

And then I just _suggest _to my family that we have a picnic on a random Wednesday afternoon in the middle of a nice, grassy park shaded by lovely oaks and maples that just _happens_ to be right next to the Twelfth Precinct.

Funny how these things work out. (Now that just sounds stalker-ish.)

Okay, so I am actually _dying_ of curiosity. Happy?

Any-who… I see the Detective exit the precinct around noon, talking on her cell phone. She is twisting a strand of hair around her fingers and smiling broadly as she speaks to whomever is on the other line.

I have my suspicions about who said other person is.

Suddenly she pauses mid-stride in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the irritated man who is walking behind her and has to juke to the side to avoid running her over. Then she makes this excited bubbly little sound.

The word "squeal" sounds so undignified… but honestly, she pretty much squeals in excitement.

Weird, right? I couldn't really picture her "squealing" either if I hadn't seen the sight—or rather, heard the sound—with my own two eyes—that is, ears.

But I digress. She whirls around, and Castle is standing there right behind her. I have no idea where he came from or when he got there, but the next moment she's in his arms kinda like a cheesy Hollywood scene.

And then they kiss and hug again and blah blah blah. You get the point. They head off to someplace or other, holding hands and if they were any closer they'd be walking directly one in front of the other.

Happily. Ever. After.

Bam! I'm sooo boss.

Why is it that I have to keep reminding you not to reprimand me for my choice of language?

I'll say it again. Bam! Me, I'm boss.

And about eleven months later, there is this big headline splashed across Page Six. Oh boy are the papers/reporters/ journalists mad.

See, apparently famed writer Richard Castle and famed detective Kate Beckett are married. And have been, already, for three months.

Oops. Looks like _somebody_ missed the gossip steal of the year. Tsk tsk… They need to do better than that.

And the rumor sharks jump on the new info, and we get the details about the wedding, the dress, the private ceremony. They discuss how the two finally fell in love (love at first sight), what convinced them to give a relationship a try (destiny), how long they'd been together (various answers from a couple months to four years)… And every bit of information is predictably inaccurate.

Haha. Ha. Ha. Hahahahaha.

So, do you see what I meant, at the beginning of this narrative, about me making a fortune from this? I could! You know I could.

And I could meet Oprah, or Jay Leno, or… You know, I really don't get much of an opportunity to watch TV much. Just accept the fact that I would be soooo famous.

But no, alas, it can never be.

So I figure I can publish this under an assumed name, change a few names and situations, and make a quick buck.

What's that you say? This is a work of fiction about fictional characters on a TV show?

You have no idea.


End file.
